


Vices

by Sethrine



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sethrine/pseuds/Sethrine
Summary: Used to, a good cigar and a tumbler of brandy was a sure-fire way to relax him. They were his vices, and they were his alone to carry.Here's to hoping he wouldn't always need them.A look into the darker moments of one, Jesse McCree, and how the Reader helps him overcome his vices.





	Vices

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags, as some things may be triggering.
> 
> Sort of a darker character study? I'm just trying to get back in my want for writing. Been very difficult.
> 
> Take this blurb, my lovelies, and let me know what you think! More to be added, in time.

Used to, a good cigar and a tumbler of brandy was a sure-fire way to relax him, calm his nerves and ease his thoughts for a solid hour while he sipped and puffed away at his preferred poisons. It was the methodical motions of readying such pleasures, or so Jesse assumed, that brought forth that ease of mind. The burn of the alcohol, the fragrant smoke that lingered in the air and on his tongue- it all coalesced into a space that felt almost sacred, safe. 

They were vices, but they were his means of comfort in times where he could find none, and they were his to carry. 

Jesse had indulged himself with those same niceties for years, being more readily accessible when he found his place in Blackwatch. He indulged after almost every major mission, the ones that lasted weeks and months on end, and the ones where they lost too many on the battlefield. Those days, a simple tumbler wouldn’t do, and by the time the sun rose on a new day, he would just be finding his peace in slumber, nearly empty bottle of a stronger spirit watching over him as he blissfully dreamt of nothing. It was much better than the nightmares. 

When he left, and not entirely of his own choice, his vices threatened to take over him, namely his drinking. If he wasn’t doing mercenary work, he most oftentimes found himself in a bar, drowning his self pity with however much the bartender was willing to give him. Often, he would pass out at the bar, either being left alone to snooze away his drunkenness or kicked out after overstaying his welcome into the early morning hours. 

There was a fine line the gunslinger walked between blackout drunk and alcohol poisoning of the lethal kind, and he damn near tiptoed along it the more he forced into his system as the weeks, months, went by. Surely, if the booze didn’t kill him, then those who were after his bounty would make a much better end, a more glorious death than piss-drunk in an alley. 

That was what he was after, wasn’t it? An end to the suffering that never quite went away, the whole reason he held to his preferred vice like he couldn’t live without a single drop of the bitter poison coating his tongue each and every night. What did he live for, if such a pain was all he felt and couldn’t be burned away from the inside for more than a few hours? Why did he continue on, if nothing he did could ever make him feel whole? 

It took three years after the disbandment of his previous organization to figure out his answer, one that came to him in the wrong place, but at the right time. 

You hadn’t asked to be on the receiving end of a gun, but hell, you sure hadn’t been scared to look down the barrel. If anything, you seemed almost amused. Cautious, yes, but anyone would be if a drunk man was pointing a gun in their face. 

“Are you going to shoot me, Mr. McCree?” 

He remembered how calmly you had spoken to him, eyes locked with his and the barest hint of a smile lighting your features. It had been instinctual to pull Peacekeeper at the touch on his shoulder, a reflex after being on the move for so long, for having the training he did. It was a wonder, at the time, that no one else had intervened. Later, he learned that he had been the only one left in the bar. 

“Ya spooked me, s'all,” he slurred, drawl heavy from the liquor. 

“I’m sorry about that. I was only trying to get your attention.” 

“Y'got it.” 

“I see that.” 

Jesse couldn’t remember much of what happened after, only knowing he had holstered Peacekeeper at your gentle request. The next time he had become aware was after waking up to a killer headache and the smell of bacon. He wasn’t in the bar anymore, but a quaint room with warm colored walls and a small alarm clock that burned the early afternoon time into his retinas. 

You had taken him in that night, given him a warm bed to sleep off his drunkenness and had taken steps to ensure he had very few hangover side-effects with the insistence of plenty of water, some ibuprofen, and a nice, fried-up breakfast for lunch that settled his stomach in a way that it shouldn’t have after all the hard liquor he’d consumed. 

He had thanked you, apologized for all the trouble and for pulling his gun on you in such a way. He wasn’t going to pull the trigger. You smiled, assured him it was the least you could do, and that you knee he wouldn’t hurt you. You then offered your home to him, should he need another night to recuperate and gather his bearings. Your spare bedroom would be open, if he needed it again. He didn’t plan on staying. 

His plans changed. 

Jesse wasn’t sure what it was about you that had him staying another night, then once more after receiving some work in town. Your demeanor was light and welcoming. Your advice to others was unbiased and only guiding, not forcing to sway any one person or party this way or that. Many who claimed to frequent the bar gave high praises of both your professionalism and friendly, welcoming presence. It was why so many came to the bar in the first place, not just for the spirits, but for the company of someone who didn’t pass judgement based on a person's shot count. 

Like many others in the bar, Jesse had been drawn to that very notion. 

When he finally had to move on, you had wished him luck in his endeavors with a bittersweet smile and a gift – a small bottle of good bourbon, a token of friendship. It wasn’t until he was well out of town, some several hundred miles gone and hiding out in a hotel that he noticed the tiny attached note taped to the back of the bottle. 

_‘We all have our vices. Here's to hoping you won’t always need them. Stay strong, Jesse McCree. You’ve got someone rooting for you, here. Xx'_

That night, he barely poured half a tumbler. He sipped at his drink for nearly an hour, letting the burn fill him and warm him, letting his mind drift as the taste lingered on his palate. He wished he’d had a cigar on him.


End file.
